Nobody Told Me He Could Fly
by Lex Munro
Summary: Continues from One, Two, Three, Four. Loser #5 joins the team, develops a raging man-crush on the awesome sniper, and slowly realizes that he's being flirted with by said sniper. Cougar/Jensen. Warnings: language, slash, pranks, military geekery.
1. Brat

Loser #5 enters the scene.

**warnings:** bastardized incomprehensible com-movie-verse (i should get that on a t-shirt...). jargon (i think there's a lot less than the last few times...). pre-slash (more like shameless bisexuality, but speaking as a bi guy, i don't see that there's anything to be ashamed of). gentle violence. gambling (and cheating). language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus s*** and f***).

**pairing:** Cougar/Jensen pre-slash.

**timeline:** pre-movie, a few days after the end of **Mojito**.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to Detective Comics/Vertigo.

**notes:** 1) you know the drill: italic is spanish, bold is emphasis. 2) quick and dirty description of the game of rummy. a meld is a run of three or more cards that match in either face value or suit (in which case they have to be consecutive). you start your turn by drawing from the deck or the discard (you can take a card as far down on the discard as you want, as long as you take all the cards on top of it, too), you can play a meld during your turn (some people let you play more than one, but you can only do it on your turn), and you end your turn by discarding. the game ends when somebody goes out (has played all the cards in his hand). your score is the combined value of your melds minus the value of whatever cards you have in your hand when the game ends. 3) i don't think we ever find out what Jolene used to do before she decided to be a stay-at-home mom, but the idea of her as a drill instructor tickles my funny-bone. 4) Jensen's being a smartass when he answers Roque, but i'm thinking he's about 22 in this fic. 5) i think we can all agree that at age 20, Cougar would have been the 'lock up your sons and daughters' kind of boy. 6) there is a disabling pressure point in the middle of the hand that, when pressed hard enough, will cause excruciating pain and temporary loss of motor control. you can use this pressure point to take someone's hand from your shoulder or force someone to drop something. i ain't telling where it is; go take a self-defense course for that. 7) if an excuse or explanation is going to sound bad, the only way to soften the blow in the military is to use a lot of technical terms to cut out the parts that have negative connotations.

**spanish**  
>"vete a la chingada" = "go f*ck yourself." if you wanted to say it in portuguese, it would be "vai te fodar," and in italian it would be "fottiti." you have now been educated. XD<p>

**liberty** = clearance to leave your assigned military base.  
><strong>boodle<strong> = junk food, candy (often contraband).  
><strong>Q<strong> = Q-Course, the Army Special Forces Qualification Course, consisting of four phases of training and assessment. it takes about a year, unless you're going into Medical (which takes another 32 weeks).  
><strong>NSI<strong> = Non-Standard-Issue. standard-issue glasses are shatter-resistant, hard to lose, and extremely unfashionable.  
><strong>Old Man<strong> = the base commander. ranked at least Colonel.  
><strong>op<strong> = operation. mission.  
><strong>wheels up<strong> = departure time for an aircraft. reference to landing gear.  
><strong>twenty-thirty<strong> = 2030, 8:30pm military time.  
><strong>President's Hundred<strong> = the hundred top competitors (both military and civilian) in the President's Pistol and President's Rifle marksmanship matches. denoted on field jackets as a yellow tab on the left shoulder (just above unit insignia) bearing the words "president's hundred" in green letters; once earned, it can be worn for the remainder of the soldier's career. (Special Forces and Rangers are two other authorized permanent tabs.)  
><strong>LT<strong> = "ell-tee," lieutenant.  
><strong>CAPE<strong> = Corrective Action: Physical Exercise. usually on-the-spot, and typically consists of punitive push-ups. sometimes accompanied by recitation of a lesson to be learned (such as doing sit-ups while repeating "i will not refer to [mustached CO] as 'Magnum'").

* * *

><p><strong>Brat<strong>

They were suffering downtime after their last narrow escape. Partly, they were waiting for the hole in Roque's leg to heal. Partly, they were waiting for their next tech.

None of them liked downtime without liberty, because it meant they were stuck with their memories and each other and nothing to do. So they played Rummy for boodle.

Cougar had several candy bars and a bag of peanut M&Ms, and it didn't look like Roque and Pooch were going to give up their futile hope of winning any time soon.

"What d'you think this one'll be like?" Pooch asked, to fill the silence while he discarded.

"Whiny little bitch like the last however-many," grunted Roque. "Seriously, man, **how** do they make it through Q?"

A scuff of boots on concrete alerted Cougar even before Clay opened the door and called out to them. "Listen up, Losers."

They paused. While Roque and Pooch were staring at the Colonel and the new guy, Cougar flipped a joker into his hand from under the table.

Then he looked up and saw their new comm specialist.

Fucking cock-sure kid with a mile-wide hundred-watt smile and NSI glasses. Big, too; only about an inch shorter than Clay, and heavy in the shoulders like Roque. He looked nothing like their previous techs (nothing like any tech Cougar'd ever seen). He was exactly Cougar's type (which consisted of pretty and curvy for women and pretty and well-built for men, in spite of Roque's unflattering insistence that Cougar's type was 'semi-conscious and at least eighteen').

"This's Jensen," Clay said. "I went to a lot of trouble to get him for us, so don't chase him off or let him get shot. The Old Man said that if we lose this one, we don't get a replacement for a while."

Pooch shook hands with the kid. "Porteous—call me Pooch."

"Roque," the scarred man said. He must've been glaring, because the kid quickly diverted from trying to shake his hand.

"He's Cougar," they both said.

"What, can't the guy talk for himse—" The kid trailed off as they made eye-contact (god, he had the **bluest** eyes, and distractingly long eyelashes). "Cat got your tongue?" he joked feebly.

Cougar stared for another second before grinning. "Makes you nervous?" he asked.

"What, me? Oh, no. No, just that you kinda have this look in your eyes like you'd garrote me in my sleep—that whole thousand-yard-stare thing. Itty-bitty cold-blooded Mexican killer vibe. Like Antonio Banderas in El Mariachi. Honestly a lot scarier than Scarface over here."

Pooch laughed. "Naw, man. Cougs is a fluffy little kitten as long as you don't piss him off—or if you give him candy. Now Roque, he's almost **more** likely to stab you if he likes you."

The kid nodded. "Right. So, bribe the fluffy kitten, try not to endear myself to the psycho. I can live with that."

"You girls play nice," Clay called over to them. "I've still got to finish the paperwork. The op is proceeding as scheduled; wheels up at twenty-thirty tomorrow." And he left.

Jensen had strayed over to the empty rack next to Cougar's. "Holy crap…President's Hundred, seriously?"

Ah, he'd seen Cougar's field jacket, then.

"As a heart-attack," said Pooch. "All things being equal, Cougar hits nothin' but bullseye."

The blond turned and wiggled a finger through the air. "So we're up to 'fluffy Mexican **sniper**-kitten with a sweet-tooth.'"

"Hey," grunted Roque. "Jensen, right?"

"Yep."

"I got one question for ya."

"Fire away."

Roque turned to glare (Cougar stealthily swapped out another card). "Do you **ever** shut up?"

Jensen shrugged and tossed his duffel onto his bunk. "Sure. Sometimes. Probably."

"Arrogant little fucker," Roque grumbled. "Yo, Pooch, are you gonna draw, or what?"

"Yeah, yeah," sighed the driver, scooping up the top five cards from the discard. "It wouldn't kill you to **not** threaten our techs once in a while. Maybe try being more personable."

"Personable? Mother-fucker, I'm the LT, I don't have to be fuckin' **personable** as long as I get shit done."

Pooch raised his eyebrows. "Mm-hm. Just sayin'. And the Pooch is not afraid of your gorilla-chest-pounding bullshit, because the Pooch is married to one badass former drill sergeant."

Roque shuddered. "All right, I'll give you that one. …When the hell did he put those eights down?"

Cougar smirked.

"Pay less attention to the brat and more attention to the game," Pooch admonished.

"Hey, this brat could kick your ass, grandpa," Jensen retorted.

"Yeah, I believe ya," Pooch said with a wave of a hand. "You ain't built like a guy who sits in dark rooms and stares at computer screens."

"That's because I've done more CAPE than Wonder Woman."

Pooch chuckled.

Roque just scoffed. "How old **are** you, little boy?"

Jensen put his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest like some cartoon superhero. "Old enough to drink, have a degree, and listen to classic rock."

"Good answer," said Pooch, giving up a card that let Cougar set out another meld. "Dammit…"

Jensen's answer seemed to give Roque pause. He frowned like he'd been expecting a foolishly proud reply of 'almost twenty-one.' "Better than Cougar, anyhow," he said, sounding mollified.

"What's that mean?" Jensen asked, locating the fourth chair (being used as a radio stand in the corner) and pulling it up.

Cougar made a face and shook his head.

Roque, however, wasn't about to give up a chance to reminisce about Cougar's embarrassing youth. "Means he wasn't even twenty when he got those tabs put on his shoulder. And he looked like he was **maybe** seventeen for five years after that."

"_Vete a la chingada_," Cougar grumbled.

"Bet he still got laid more 'n you," said Pooch.

"At least twice as much," Roque admitted. "Bastard passed himself off all sweet 'n innocent, with the wide eyes and the curly mop and pretendin' he didn't know English."

And then Cougar forgot to be annoyed, because Jensen was laughing. It was a nice kind of laugh, full-bellied and sincere, and it made those blue eyes twinkle.

"You sly fucker!" the blond praised, slapping him on the back.

Roque and Pooch instinctively pushed their chairs away.

Usually, being touched by a stranger would've made Cougar react with what Roque termed 'vigorous physical correction,' and the guy would end up pinned face-down with a boot on the back of his neck.

Cougar was too dazed to react. He stared for a while, then set down the rest of his hand in a six-card meld.

"**Again**!" Roque howled, throwing his cards onto the table. "Goddammit, now I remember why I hate playin' against you. I miss the old days, when you were scared you'd get in trouble for beating a superior at cards."

"Yeah, the Pooch is out, too," said Pooch. "Enjoy your winnings; I hope your teeth rot."

"I volunteer to be a good friend by saving his teeth from one of these Hershey bars," Jensen announced.

"Whoa, no, bad idea—" Pooch started, but Roque held him back.

"No, no, let him find out the hard way," Roque said with a vindictive grin.

Cougar caught Jensen's hand just as it touched the pile of candy. He squeezed down hard on one of the pressure points.

"Ow, jeez, holy shit!" Jensen yelped. "Agh, what is that, like a **ninja death grip** or something?"

"Ask," Cougar said firmly.

"What? Oh, c'mon, it's just a little candy, it's not like—ow, **ow**, you mean little bastard! Man, this is just like my last relationship…"

Cougar arched an eyebrow. "Ask," he said again.

Jensen schooled his pained grimace into a pleading pout. "Pretty please, can I have one of those Hershey bars? Seriously, I've been kicked from one hardass unit to another, I haven't gotten anywhere near junk food in eight months, I'm dying of chocolate withdrawal."

Cougar let go and handed him the chocolate he'd been reaching for.

"Tried to warn ya, man," Pooch apologized. "Cougs is scary about his sugar intake. Last guy tried to steal candy from him ended up with eight stitches from a 'high-speed forehead-to-table collision.'"

That was what had been on the report, anyway, and the guy was scared enough not to refute it. The Old Man had given Cougar his very sternest scowl, but even he couldn't beat Cougar's poker face. In the end, Cougar had gotten away with a growled warning to 'limit such collisions in the future.'

Jensen carefully flexed his bruised hand for a moment, then grinned. "Dude, that was fucking badass! Where'd you learn how to do that? Fucking David Carradine shit—'I could kill you with just these two fingers.' Fucking **awesome**. Can you teach me how to do it?"

"Aw, that's cute," muttered Roque. "Now Cougar has himself a puppy."

"You're just jealous nobody's ever gone all twinkly-eyed-fanboy on **you**," snorted Pooch.

**.End.**


	2. Flight

**warnings:** bastardized com-movie-verse. teeny bit of violence. teeeeeny slashy hint (but you could take it as bromance, if you want, because Cougar's cool enough for most guys to have a raging man-crush on). language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus s*** and f***).

**pairing:** hints of Cougar/Jensen pre-slash (or man-crush, whatever).

**timeline:** pre-movie/comic.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to Detective Comics/Vertigo.

**notes:** 1) the cougar/puma/mountain lion is a scary-ass cat. in north america, they get pretty effing big (over two meters with tail) and are exceptionally good jumpers. north american cougars have a tendency to eat large animals like horses, cattle, and elk, and were one of the many dangers in the urbanization of the southwest. 2) a favela is a Brazilian slum. the buildings tend to be crowded together in a way that makes roofs almost better than streets for getting around (if you're brave). 3) if you've been living in a hole, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon is a fantasy/martial-arts film with a hell of a lot of wire-work.

* * *

><p><strong>Flight<strong>

It was maybe three months after Jensen joined the Losers that he got to see firsthand how much Cougar hated the cold.

Jensen thought it was the funniest thing he'd ever seen, and he wanted everyone to know it.

"This is _hilarious_," he said.

Roque glanced sidelong at him. "You better watch yourself, kid. He comes over this fire at you, I ain't stopping him."

But Jensen couldn't help it. He waved a hand before using it to squeeze his marshmallows to see if they were done. "Look at him!" he snickered. "It's barely below freezing, and he's acting like it's a fucking ice age, man! He looks like a little kid. Besides, it's a big fire, I think I'm safe."

Cougar glared miserably through the gap between scarf and hat, but didn't bother to respond.

"You know how he got his nickname?" Roque asked idly, turning his coffee cup to warm it evenly.

Jensen shrugged, enjoying the sheer silliness that was their bundled-up comrade. "Figured it was either some embarrassing boot camp story or a dark tale of Black Ops gone awry."

Roque snorted. "Ranchers in the southwest states can tell you all about how a cougar hunts. Lies in wait, low down in tall grass, sometimes for hours and hours without a sound, practically invisible. Then something big enough, tempting enough, and _stupid_ enough comes along, and _bam_!" He snatched up the little tin cup of coffee. "A cougar can go from belly-sprawl to airborne in an instant, tear a man right out the saddle."

"I don't…" Jensen began, shaking his head. "I don't get it."

There was a moment of silence, filled only by the crackle of the fire and the sound of Roque sipping his coffee. "Wait until we have a job in an urban setting, and you will."

Jensen just dismissed the subject, still amused to have finally found an environmental hazard that made Cougar as miserable as jungle heat made the rest of them. "I, for one, could get used to being sent into mountains instead of deserts and rainforests. This is kinda like New England in winter." And he nibbled happily on a toasted marshmallow.

Two weeks later, Jensen was sprinting full-tilt over the roofs of some crappy little favela in Brazil, trying to make the extraction point with some bad guy's dinosaur of a laptop that felt like it was made of lead. He was a decent free-runner, in his own opinion, and he could have made the jump any other time. As it was, with the extra weight, he missed his grip on the edge of a roof and ended up clinging to a crack in the masonry a foot down.

"Crap, crap, crap, crap," he grunted, trying to find a foothold. The twenty-foot drop didn't look like something he wanted to experience without space to roll.

When Cougar went sailing over his head, he kind of stopped to stare.

"Oh, wow," he mumbled, ever-so-slightly (completely, fanboyishly) awestruck. "Like a ninja. A fucking Mexican ninja-sniper, how hot is that? My geeky charm can't compete with that shit, I'm never gonna get laid around this guy. Worst. Wingman. Ever."

Then the sniper leaned down to drag him up. He was saying something in Spanish.

From the relative safety of the roof, Jensen shook his head and tried to catch his breath. "Yeah, no. Spanish is one of the ones I don't speak, pal. No comprende."

Cougar rolled his eyes and shoved Jensen toward the extract. "I said, 'stop dicking around and run.'" And off he went, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Pouting to himself, Jensen followed. "See you try that Batman shit with this brick strapped around your neck," he grumbled.

And then Pooch pulled the chopper around from nowhere, and Cougar went for it without even breaking stride.

Jensen skidded to a halt. "Oh, _hell_ no!" he gasped, when he saw the gap.

"Five armed men are chasing your ass, what the hell are you waiting for?" Pooch called over the radio.

"Wings to grow out of my back, mother-fucker! Bring it closer!"

"Nag, nag, nag…" Pooch snorted, but hovered a few feet nearer.

A bullet thumped into the side of the chopper, and Jensen decided Pooch had pulled in close enough. He winded himself against the edge of the floor and banged his shin on the runner, but he managed to get inside without getting shot or dropping the payload.

"What the hell was that?" he complained when they had left their pursuit behind. "Maybe Cougar can fly, but I sure as shit can't! Next time, how about you put a gap marginally narrower than the Mississippi between the building and the chopper?"

Pooch made a derisive noise. "You're the one who said you were 'nimble as a gazelle.' I could set it down a foot away for ya, like I do for little old ladies."

"Yeah, well, nobody told me this smug fucker could soar through the air with the greatest of ease," he retorted, jerking his thumb at Cougar, who just sat there and smirked.

"Roque said he told you how Cougs got his name."

"No, Roque gave me some cryptic bullshit about wildcats pulling ranchers out of the saddle. I thought it was about patience and lying in wait and shit, not—not fucking Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon!"

Pooch poked the bobble-head on the center console. "Well, there's three things cougars do better than lying in wait: sprinting, jumping, and climbing."

"We also swim," Cougar put in.

Jensen hugged the stolen laptop and sulked. "Fucking flying cats. All right, Superman, I won't make fun of the cold weather thing again. But you seriously looked like a little kid, all bundled up in a million layers like that."

"Mm-hm," said Pooch. "You don't mess with Cougar about the cold, and we won't tell the Colonel how the 'nimble gazelle' flopped onto the chopper like a stunned salmon. By the way, that's pretty much how Cougs always gets aboard a chopper."

"I haven't even been with you crazy bastards half a year, and already prison is starting to look nice and comfy by comparison…"

**.End.**


	3. Fast Hands

O HAI! SO I HERD U LIEK C/J? 8D

**warnings:** com-movie-verse? ^^; idk, pick one (pick the Roque you prefer? i thought he was creepier in the comic, myself). slashy leanings (but really, Cougar and Jensen don't need my help to be slashy). gambling, threats of violence. language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus one use of s***).

**pairing:** Cougar/Jensen pre-slash.

**timeline:** pre-movie/pre-comic.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to DC/Vertigo.

**notes:** 1) stuff in italic is Spanish. 2) whether it's video games or card games, NEVER trust a bunch of guys who say they'll "go easy on you." NEVER. 3) come on, like we weren't completely suspicious about the fact that in the movie, Jensen mentioned cheating and then Cougar turned out to have the only half-decent card... i know i was suspicious. and how extra-suspicious is it that Pooch and Roque were like "dur, cheatins? whatchoo talkin' about?" 4) while sleight of hand is blatantly cheating, card-counting technically isn't (as long as you do it in your head). it's just that card-counting is kind of an unfair advantage over a guy with the attention span of a hyperactive puppy. 5) Beth is the true master of the Losers. she probably has them all under her cute little thumb.

**spanish**  
>"ah, muy bien" = "oh, very good."<br>"tu tío es muy chistoso, no?" = "your uncle is very strange, isn't he?"  
>"buena suerte" = "good luck."<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Fast Hands<strong>

The first time Jensen played cards with the Losers was on his third day with the unit. They were stuck waiting for their local guide for an hour or so, and there had been encouraging calls of 'no, no, we'll go easy on the newbie' when he tried to weasel out of it.

"We'll give poker another try," Pooch decided. "Haven't played any Hold 'Em in a while."

Clay leaned back while their wheelman dealt the cards. "That's because some of us have no poker face," he sighed, "while certain snipers who shall remain nameless have ungodly poker faces."

Roque snickered and picked up his cards. "Probably sold his soul for it, or some shit."

Jensen, not really having a good handle on the others just yet, smiled blankly and played.

They played for an hour, the five of them, and Cougar was the only one who never lost—he'd fold occasionally, but if he saw the hand through, he always either split or won.

That was the first time Jensen suspected Cougar of cheating.

A week later, Roque suggested Black Jack.

"Let's see your poker face help you outta this," the scarred man snorted.

Unruffled, the sniper had just raised an eyebrow.

Over the course of twenty minutes, they managed to fit in six hands. Cougar never went bust, and he always won or pushed.

"That's insane!" Jensen shouted, jumping to his feet. "He's gotta be cheating!"

The others stared at him.

"Sit down, son," Clay grunted.

"It was only six rounds," Pooch said. "Everybody gets lucky streaks."

By the end of the first month, Jensen decided they were messing with him. They were only playing for food and small cash, and they kept playing games that could be cheated with fast hands or card-counting. He knew Cougar was cheating, and the others had to know it, too…they just ignored it (and he didn't have any proof). So Jensen didn't play cards if Cougar was playing, and they relentlessly teased him if he said why.

One day on leave, about a year after he became a Loser, Jensen walked out into his sister's backyard and saw Cougar doing card tricks for his niece.

There he was, plain as day, crouched down on the porch doing the kind of sleight of hand that made sequin-suited guys rich in Vegas. Cards were disappearing, reappearing, changing places…

"I knew it!" Jensen cried, jumping up and down and pointing. "I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!" He ran back inside, grabbed Pooch with one arm and Roque with the other, dragged them along.

Beth had the deck of cards and flipped one up. "Is this your card?"

"_Ah_, _muy bien_," Cougar told her, ruffling her hair.

"You made me spill my damn beer to see your sister's kid doing card tricks?" Roque growled. "I knew you had a complex, but this is ridiculous."

Jensen gesticulated wildly at Cougar. "What? No! That! Him! He's the one—he was—and then—and the card was like—and—"

"One more time, boy," said Roque. "One more time, and I'm gonna start cutting things off you in your sleep." And he stormed back in the house.

"Pooch, you believe me, don't you?" Jensen appealed.

But Pooch just patted him on the shoulder and said, "Paranoid," before following Roque.

Jensen scowled at Cougar while Beth happily shuffled the cards with her tiny hands. "I'm on to you," he said.

The sniper tipped his hat and smirked. "_Tu tío es muy chistoso_, _no_?" he said to Beth, who giggled and nodded.

"What?" Jensen demanded. "What was that? You two and your Spanish…plotting behind my back… Where'd Bethie learn Spanish, anyway?"

Beth looked up at him. "From Dora and Sesame Street," she replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You just go back inside and keep talking all your grown-ups computer-y stuff with Mommy and Uncle Frank, and me and Uncle Carlos can stay out here and talk Spanish."

"You and Unc—" he sputtered, feeling betrayed. Then the actual words clicked into place, and he blinked. "Dude, your name is Carlos?"

"Duh," said Beth. "Uncle Jake, you don't really think his mommy named him Cougar, do you?"

It was tremendously damaging to Jensen's ego to have a five-year-old look at him like he was retarded, so he tried his best to assume a nonchalant pose. "No, of course not," he laughed weakly. "I knew he had a normal name. Somewhere. Same way Pooch does. Except Pooch's name isn't actually all that normal."

She didn't look convinced, but she went back to shuffling the cards.

"One of these days, I'm gonna catch you cheating," Jensen promised. "And then I'm gonna make them apologize for all the times they called me paranoid."

Cougar nodded and lazily uncurled until he was standing beside Jensen. "_Buena suerte_," he said, and smacked Jensen soundly on the ass before wandering back indoors for a beer.

"Pocket," Beth said.

When Jensen checked his back pocket, he found the ace of hearts. Beth giggled and applauded.

And that was the first time Jensen suspected Cougar of flirting with him.

**.End.**


	4. El Toro

proceeding with the pre-slashiness.

**warnings:** com-movie-verse? ^^; yeah, again, pick one (or don't?). slashy (but really, Cougar and Jensen don't need my help to be slashy). drinking (and drunken babbling). public shirtlessness (and who doesn't like to see a good shirtless man once in a while?). language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus one use of g**damn).

**pairing:** Cougar/Jensen pre-slash.

**timeline:** pre-movie/pre-comic.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to DC/Vertigo.

**notes:** 1) stuff in italic is Spanish. thanks to MerianMoriarty on the translating. 2) the title is also Spanish, but "el toro" just means "the bull." apt, yes? 3) i knew a guy who could do the no-hands thing on a mechanical bull. it was sexy, in a "hey, wait, this guy could crush your ribcage with those thighs" kinda way. women did, in fact, form a screaming mob around him when he did that. 4) i can't be the only one who thinks it's super-sexy when guys (and some gals) straighten their hair (sometimes just by brushing it as it dries), but it goes curly again when they sweat. o_o 5) a good bartender is always half-listening to your conversation just in case he can get you another drink (or a better tip).

**spanish**  
>"Tú eres más tonto que Carracuca" = "you're being dumber than the devil" (i.e. "you're being hella-dense").<br>"guero" = "white boy," coarse slang that can be used as an insult if you say it in the right tone and context.

* * *

><p><strong>El Toro<strong>

Jensen pouted into his fourth beer.

There were a lot of things to be said for a guy who could ride a mechanical bull at most speeds with no hands. One of those things (especially if he had no shirt on) was that women would form a gleefully screaming throng, clamoring around him to buy him drinks or stuff cash down his pants.

Another was that he must have incredible thighs—the kind that let a guy soar up walls and over rails and across ten feet of open air like gravity couldn't catch him—and Jensen was trying very hard not to think about that.

Cougar settled onto the stool next to Jensen's, dropped his hat on the bar, and ran a hand through sweat-damp hair (there was something consummately sexy about the fact that his hair started to curl just a bit when it was wet). On the other side, a redhead slid him a beer with her number on the coaster.

"That is completely unfair, you know," Jensen announced as the bartender hurried to keep up with the orders. "Other guys at this bar were hoping to possibly get laid."

Cougar just shrugged and passed the beer the redhead had bought him.

Jensen sat up straighter. "You can't make up for that by buying me drinks," he said loftily. "So. So stop. Unless. I mean, if you're trying to get me drunk so you can abandon me and go sleep with like half a dozen of your shrieking admirers, stop. But if you're trying to get me drunk so I can be happily drunk essentially for free, that's completely cool. Because. Because getting drunk for free would be awesome."

A giggling brunette jostled against him to pass her number and proclaim undying love for Cougar's six-pack.

"And the scenery is nice," he admitted.

The sniper pointed meaningfully to the empty bottles lined up in front of the hacker.

Jensen laughed. "Okay, yes, maybe I'm already drunk. Come on, I wasn't gonna say no when I haven't had to reach for my wallet all night. And I always figured you'd be a lousy, chick-stealing wingman, with the long hair and the smoky eyes and the sexy accent. And the hat—the hat is sheer brilliance, it's seriously, like, the best prop ever. I think you must've hidden a chick-magnet in it somewhere…" He waved an arm at the wall of drooling estrogen (someone cooed something about army boys and got handsy with his bicep). "Cougs, you could tell one of these girls that you thought she was the dumbest goddamn thing you ever met, and she'd swoon."

Cougar proceeded to nod and be supremely distracting by dint of being all sweaty and shirtless (and having a waistband full of dead presidents).

The phrase 'incredible thighs' drifted back into Jensen's inebriated brain. With a heartfelt groan of resignation, he finished that fourth beer and reached for the fresh one.

Suddenly, tan fingers plucked it away and Cougar stole a drink (the redhead's name was Jenny, but her number was something boring). "_Tú eres más tonto que Carracuca_, _guero_," the sniper purred. He winked as he gave the beer back and pulled his shirt on. Tipping his hat back onto his head, he wandered over to fleece a bunch of Airborne Rangers at pool (the bulk of his happy female audience flowed along in his wake).

"Huh?" Jensen mumbled, blinking.

"Said you were a dumbass white boy," the bartender told him.

That was the second time Jensen suspected Cougar of flirting with him.

**.End.**


	5. Third Time's a Charm

aaaand the third time Jensen suspected…

**warnings:** bastardized com-movie-verse. slashy. language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus one use of g**damn).

**pairing:** Cougar/Jensen pre-slash.

**timeline:** pre-movie/pre-comic.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to DC/Vertigo.

**notes:** 1) this time, italics are emphasis, and as per my usual ~"..."~ is stuff on cell phones, computers, etc.. 2) the title is a reference to the saying "third time's a charm" or "third time lucky," which is a superstition that the third attempt at something is more likely to succeed. 3) i hadn't heard the phrase "to lose your shit" until i moved to cali. XD if you've never heard it, it means "to go crazy." 4) **PT** = physical training. daily PT is a requirement on active duty in the army. when you're high enough in rank (or your CO says it's cool), you can pick the time of day you prefer (some people like to run in the evening, for instance). 5) i have an "i'm with stupid" shirt where the text is at the very bottom of the shirt with the arrow pointing up. (and another one that's the reverse, with the text at the top and the arrow pointing down). XD 6) when i say Nick Junior, i mean all that cracktastic aimed-at-preschoolers shit they play in the morning. 7) my sister totally leaves phone and web messages like this, where she magically knows everything that'll be going on in the room at the time.

* * *

><p><strong>Third Time's a Charm<strong>

Apparently, before Jensen joined the Losers, they Didn't Do Holidays.

Holidays were a luxury the Losers could rarely afford. Christmas was usually the only one they could count on, and they'd missed it twice (once just after Pooch joined, and he'd been useless and mopey the whole day…Jensen would've loved to see that). Sometimes they could get Thanksgiving or Independence Day (that one was especially nice, because a set of dogtags and a military ID could get them all shit-faced on less than ten bucks).

They didn't even bother with birthdays.

Jensen put a stop to that boring shit right away.

Jensen would make a big deal out of almost any national holiday (and a few from other countries) plus Halloween. He'd thought about trying for more, but he'd only been with the gang for just shy of two years, and he didn't want to try Clay's patience (Roque was different, it was fun to piss him off and he didn't really get a say in whether or not Jensen got kicked to the curb). He even decorated for most of them, and Clay didn't make a fuss as long as the streamers, banners, and confetti were cleaned up within forty hours.

His first birthday with the unit had been while they were ass-deep in jungle, so he'd let it slip by. This time, they were back on base—and he fully intended to make the most of it.

Three days before his birthday, mail call turned up a brown box that contained three wrapped presents and a home-made card, and he officially Began to Lose His Shit. He realized he was probably driving the guys up the walls with his hyperactive glee, but he loved his niece and he loved getting presents, so getting a present from his niece made him bounce with joy. By the day before his birthday, even Clay had had enough; he sternly told Jensen to "calm the fuck down before I have you sedated." He also told Jensen that any kind of party noisemaker was forbidden unless Jensen felt like telling a base physician about how Roque shoved it into whatever-bodily-orifice.

Still, when wake-up call hit and most of the base was stirring to life, Jensen sang Happy Birthday at the top of his lungs. Roque and Pooch ran off to do their PT in record time.

He started with the box that said 'open first.' There was a shirt with a note pinned to the collar (wear this), so he unpinned the note and pulled the shirt on. It said 'I'm With Stupid,' and had an arrow pointing up. The second box (me next) had a DVD in it that he immediately popped into his laptop while he looked at the third one (don't open until we tell you to!).

On the screen, Holly and Bethie (wearing party hats) waved. _~"Hi, Uncle Jake!"~_

"Hi, girls!" he said, even though he knew they couldn't hear him (he did it with Bethie's Nick Junior shows, too).

_~"So, we were gonna sing you happy birthday,"~_ Holly said, and shrugged. _~"But then we figured you've probably been singing it all week in an hourly countdown, and decided to take pity on Frank and the boys. By this point, they've probably fled your presence, and you're lucky Will hasn't done something drastic like tying you up and locking you in a supply closet."~_

"Oh, sure, everyone's a comedian," Jensen muttered.

_~"We're sorry you didn't have time to come home,"~_ Holly went on. _~"At least you're actually in the country, this year, right? Open the third box."~_

He did. It was a batch of chewy peanut butter cookies with butterscotch chips. "You guys are _awesome_!" he squealed.

_~"Yes, we're awesome,"~_ Holly agreed, and Bethie held up the cookies. _~"We baked them right before we sent them."~_

_~"I helped!"~_ Bethie said proudly. _~"I stirred. And I licked the bowl, which his how you always help."~_

Holly shook her head as if to say 'look what a bad influence you are.' _~"You don't have to share them, but he—"~_ She pointed over his shoulder. _~"—will probably sulk all day if you don't give him one."~_

Jensen blinked and looked where she pointed.

Cougar casually went back to cleaning his gun.

_~"Yeah, he's probably playing cool, too, like we don't all three know he started hovering the second he smelled those cookies."~_

_~"Tell him, Mommy, tell him,"~_ Bethie pressed, putting down the cookies.

_~"I'm getting there,"~_ Holly assured her. _~"At the beginning of the month, Bethie's first grown-up tooth came in."~_

_~"Thee?"~_ said the six-year-old, pulling her mouth wide to show the beginning of her adult molar.

"Yay!" Jensen cheered.

_~"Anyway, you know the drill: the pictures you've missed are all on here. Happy birthday, Jacob, and try not to blow anything up."~_

_~"Bubbye, we love you!"~_

And they waved.

So Jensen stuck a cookie in his mouth and started flipping through the photo gallery the girls had put on the disc.

"Oh, my _god_, these things are fucking fantastic!" he said. "Best birthday present ever. _Ever_. Best friend or not, Cougs, I don't think you can top a batch of PBBS."

On the next bunk over, he heard Cougar set down the gun he'd been cleaning. Then the sniper appeared (Jensen never heard the guy's footsteps unless Cougar decided he wanted to be heard) and sat next to him on the edge of his bunk. One eyebrow arched in a way that said, 'I totally _could_.'

Jensen shook his head. "No, seriously. Unless it turned out that you're secretly a superhero and you could introduce me to, like, _the Avengers_ or something…"

Cougar nodded solemnly. Then he grasped Jensen's chin and turned his head enough to _kiss the living daylights out of him_.

Jensen's brain gave up coherent thought for a while. It managed to register two things: one, Cougar was a hell of a kisser; two, Cougar looked delightfully wicked when he smirked with his hair still mussed from sleep.

When Cougar stole a cookie and went back to cleaning his gun, Jensen's brain finally kicked back on and volunteered one gem of wisdom that he managed not to say aloud.

_Okay, that totally topped the cookies._

That was the third time Jensen suspected Cougar of flirting with him, and he was just about convinced.

**.End.**


	6. Certainty

still only suspecting, Jensen? we can fix that.

**warnings:** bastardized com-movie-verse. reference to slash. gentle violence. language: pg (primetime tv).

**pairing:** discussion of Cougar/Jensen.

**timeline:** pre-movie/pre-comic. maybe a couple of weeks after Jensen's birthday in **Third Time's a Charm**.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to DC/Vertigo.

**notes:** 1) yeah, i took the "Jensen's niece had a deadbeat dad" route. seems like more fun, to me. 2) dumb-blond!Jensen is a dumb blond sometimes. but we love him anyway. 3) Holly selectively tattles. best way to get somebody to try and bribe her, right?

* * *

><p><strong>Certainty<strong>

Holly Jensen has given up trying to be Holly Something-Besides-Jensen, because apparently all men are idiots and at least half of them are assholes.

Sometimes, she'd dearly like to get rid of her surname altogether, because it associates her with a particularly dense example of the male gender. Her brother does and says _so many_ embarrassingly idiotic things for such a smart man…

Jacob has been a Loser for nearly two years now, but his comrades-in-arms have somehow failed to teach him anything useful (like self-preservation, or how to shut the hell up once in a while). They've got a week of leave for the first time in three months, and Beth is at a slumber party, so Jacob is sprawled on his usual end of the couch while they watch an R-rated action flick that they both missed (him because he was out of the country, her because she has a six-year-old).

And then he says one of those things that makes her want to disown him.

"Ya think it means something if somebody kisses you on your birthday?"

It's almost sad, how sure she is of _exactly_ what he's talking about. She has the urge to hit him with something heavy, but she decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. "I guess it depends," she says.

"I mean, it was my birthday, so it could've been a friends-and-family kinda thing."

Holly rolls her eyes. No, there's a reason she jumps to certain conclusions when it comes to Jacob, and it's because he's been her stupid brother for so long. "Well, if he slipped you some tongue, it probably wasn't a 'friends-and-family' thing."

"Oh, yeah," he agrees thoughtfully. "Didn't think about that… And who ever said anything about a 'he'?"

She pauses the movie and stares at him blankly.

He pouts. "It _could've_ been a girl. Lots of girls think I'm adorable. They might try to kiss me."

"Jacob, he would _punch_ anybody who tried to kiss you."

"He doesn't hit girls. And you're hallucinating or something, because otherwise nothing you've said makes any sense."

"Christ, you are _thick_!" Holly yells, chucking the remote at her brother (he yelps and catches it when it bounces off his forehead). "Cougar has been trying to get into your pants for a _year_!"

"First of all, ow," Jacob mutters, rubbing at the bump where the remote hit him. "Second of all, that totally explains about a million things. Third of all, why the hell didn't you say anything? And last, but not least—dude, Hols, it's kinda weird that you've been paying that close attention."

She counts up on her fingers as she replies. "You deserved it, _duh_, I mistakenly assumed you had two brain cells not devoted to hacking or your niece, and it's kinda pathetic how obvious he's been."

"Huh." He looks at the ceiling for a while. "That's…kinda awesome."

"Yes, well," she mutters, and holds out her hand for the remote. "Congratulations, your sexy, well-mannered best friend has the hots for you, you lucky moron. Can we get back to the movie before your stupidity starts to rub off on me?"

Jacob passes the remote back and rubs his hands together with his 'mad scientist' grin. "You go ahead. I gots plottins to do."

Holly has learned to keep well away from what Jacob calls 'plotting' (or 'plottins'). She unpauses the movie. "If Frank asks, I'm going to tell him that you're outlining a plan to make all the toilets on base explode simultaneously into rainbow fountains."

"Like Clay would ask _you_ what I'm up to…" he scoffs on his way to his room (which looks a lot like Frankenstein's lab for computers).

Holly just smiles to herself. For about fourteen months now, Frank Clay has called her up if Jacob started to show signs of scheming. She understands; she's cheaper and more reliable than a shrink, when it comes to her brother's special brand of insanity. She's willing to bet good money that Frank will call her within three days after Jacob gets back to Fort Bragg.

**.End.**


	7. Plottins

begin teh plottins!

**warnings:** bastardized com-movie-verse (plus a teeny bit of Criminal Minds and Covert Affairs). bare hintings of slash. language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus f*** and s***).

**pairing:** Cougar/Jensen pre-slash.

**timeline:** pre-movie/pre-comic. exactly three days after getting back to base from his trip to Holly's in **Certainty**.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to DC/Vertigo.

**notes:** 1) to my experience, the best computer-friendly snack is low-crumb dry cereal like Kix or Pops. 2) black dossier = a term for the top secret file of someone cleared for black ops. that person's regular file will contain big blank spots and a lot of inaccurate information, both to keep his black ops work secret and to help keep his personal life safe. 3) the SR-25 (Stoner Rifle number 25) is a standard US Army sniping weapon. while smaller-caliber and shorter-range than a Barrett, it is more portable, semi-auto firing, and can be more easily silenced/suppressed. 4) a surprising number of people name their favorite weapons (Roque's probably got names for all his knives).

**SIC** = Second in Command, also abbreviated 2IC.  
><strong>CO<strong> = Commanding Officer.  
><strong>NOC<strong> = Non-Official Cover; the spies who will get in big, big trouble if they get caught. (contrast to Official Cover, spies who take cover jobs that will grant them diplomatic immunity if they get caught.)  
><strong>SOP<strong> = Standard Operating Procedure.  
><strong>SEAL<strong> = Sea, Air, and Land; the Navy's primary special operations force. their qualification and training process is notoriously rigorous and yields the Swiss Army Knife of special forces operatives. they have a reputation for being some of the best snipers in the world (seriously; sniping from a boat? not easy!).  
><strong>Delta<strong> = Delta Force, the top badasses of Army Special Forces. super-hush-hush, usually dressed to blend in with civilians. they could tell you that they eat bad guys for breakfast, lunch, and dinner...but then they'd have to kill you. seriously, these guys are like something out of a Tom Clancy novel.  
><strong>SERE<strong> = Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape. training to avoid or deal with being captured; the most basic level is administered to all service personnel on an annual basis, but those at above-average risk of being captured and interrogated receive additional, more strenuous SERE training.  
><strong>Section Eight<strong> = discharge for psychological reasons (such as a complete nervous breakdown or a psychotic episode).

* * *

><p><strong>Plottins<strong>

There are, generally speaking, two kinds of SIC.

The first kind of SIC will do what he can to help solve little problems in the unit before they become big enough to bother the CO with. The CO might be a hardass (and it's usually expected of him to some degree), but the SIC will get you hangover cures, caffeine tablets, a couple hours of privacy before you rip somebody's head off and wear it as a hat…whatever it takes within a certain grey area to keep the unit in optimum operating conditions.

The second kind of SIC will rub salt in the wound and tell you to learn from your stupid fucking mistakes (but will probably smooth things over with the CO the first few times you screw up).

Lieutenant William Roque (and even three years after the fact, he was both proud and slightly stunned that he'd gotten his commission) was the second kind of SIC. He figured if Clay was gonna be a fucking pushover about most things, he'd make up for it by being the hardass. Nobody would benefit if both halves of the command team were lax.

But experience had taught him that—learning experiences be damned—he needed to tattle on Jensen at the earliest signs of misbehavior, because the kid had zero fear of Roque (and conversely Roque had a healthy fear of a certain sniper who would probably do unspeakable things to him if he ever carried out his threats).

So he was on his bunk, blithely honing his knives to feign disinterest while Clay stood over Jensen with a slightly pained expression.

"Jensen. What are you doing?"

"Hacking," Jensen replied, downing another handful of dry cereal.

"I can see that," huffed Clay. "What are you hacking _into_?"

"CIA black dossiers."

Clay grimaced. "We're not on an assignment, Corporal. Why, for the love of God and Star Trek, are you hacking into the most heavily guarded secrets of the CIA?"

"Second-most heavily guarded," Jensen corrected. "NOC list has three more firewalls and way better encryption. Combined favor to one buddy named Auggie and another buddy named Penny. He asked me to check their security, she asked me to get the dirty goods on an asset who may be doing bad, bad things. If you turn it sideways and squint, it's totally legit."

Roque tried not to show his skepticism (after all, he was pretending not to pay attention).

"And you're just doing it out of the goodness of your heart?" Clay asked flatly.

"Hell, no," laughed Jensen. "I'm keeping one of these bad boys for myself."

"That's…even more illegal than the rest of it."

Jensen rolled his eyes. "Please. If the CIA and FBI don't know better than to expect a hacker to make off with some juicy intel in exchange for services rendered, there's no helping them. It's safer with me. And it's not yours, Colonel Stoneface, so you can enhance your calm. Though I was surprised to see you've been divorced twice. Domestic abuse, really?"

"She clocked me with a cast-iron skillet," Clay grunted. "I consider that grounds for divorce. What the hell do you want with the classified portions of a Black Ops asset's file?"

"Do you have any idea how much they either delete or alter when they clear somebody for Black Ops?" Jensen typed something up and pointed at his laptop screen. "Date of birth, place of birth, hometown, family members, schooling, unit and training history…if it ain't immediately pertinent to healthcare, it's erased. Same as the way our field ops dogtags all have aliases on 'em. Don't you feel kinda shady, dealing with people who do that kinda stuff?"

Clay just gave the kid a long, steady look. "This is the third time in as many days I've come in here to see _you_ doing something 'shady' yourself. I'm calling your sister." And he stalked out of the barracks (presumably to his office).

"She'll tell you I'm engineering a rainbow toilet explosion," Jensen called after their CO.

Roque paused in sharpening his second blade. "Whose file you grabbin'?"

"Cougar's," Jensen answered, still typing. "Middle of five children, only boy. That must've sucked. Graduated high school with a _four-point-oh_. Captain of the soccer team, captain of the rifle team, dated every girl on the cheerleading squad…Cougs was livin' the American dream, man. Well, Mexican-American—twice as many kids."

Roque made a face. "Why the hell does the CIA keep track of who their operatives dated in high school?"

"It's SOP, in case they turn out to have dated a terrorist."

"Yeah, well…statistically speaking, he must've by now," Roque muttered under his breath. In all the time Roque had known the sniper, Cougar had never been terribly picky when it came to knocking boots. Every girl on the cheerleading squad? Probably more like every girl in school plus half the guys.

Jensen kept scrolling through the file. "First participated in the President's Rifle Match at age seventeen, placed tenth, the highest of any civilian that year…and has since won every time he participated. That's badass."

Roque nearly pointed out that Jensen could just ask Cougar about those things like a normal human being. Then he thought a little longer and figured Cougar wouldn't answer those kinds of questions, no matter how huge a crush he had on the dipshit hacker (especially the part about being the only boy out of five kids; Roque knew from experience that younger brothers were used as dress-up dolls). "Why ya wanna know that kinda shit, anyhow?"

The blond stuffed some more cereal in his mouth and crunched mutely for a while. "Best way to assure a successful hunt is to know your prey," he replied philosophically. "Sun Tzu said that the victorious general only fights a battle he has already won, so I figured a little intelligence-gathering was in order. SEAL training, Delta-level SERE…preferred weapon SR-25…they even know her name's Isabel. 'View psych profile (y/n)?' 'Y,' please."

Roque blinked and gestured with the knife in his hand. "You start puttin' down bear traps baited with porn and cotton candy, I will file the Section Eight myself."

**.End.**


	8. Field Research

plottins continue. (ArdentSinner made me a list of silly things to include in Jensen's plottins...with this fic, i checked "fake mustache/wig" and "binoculars" off the list! [and **Plottins** had "hacking."] now we just need "mostly naked," "lots of caffeine/alcohol," "wet cougar," and apparently "flying bear trap"...)

**warnings:** bastardized com-movie-verse (leaning a little more movieverse, since i'm pretty sure comic!Pooch should have a daughter by now). bare hintings of slash (just because that's why Jensen's engaging in his whacky plottins to begin with). language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus f***).

**pairing:** a hint of Cougar/Jensen pre-slash.

**timeline:** pre-movie/pre-comic. the day after **Plottins**.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to DC/Vertigo.

**notes:** 1) **liberty** = freedom to leave the base. **op** = operation, mission. 2) at most bases, the guards are supposed to check ID on people going in _and_ out; in fact, if you don't have the nifty badge that says you live off-base but work on-base and can pretty much come and go as you need to (or the badge that says you're visiting), they're supposed to check your leave/liberty papers every time you leave the base. this is the only way to avoid being counted as AWOL (away without official leave). 3) just realized some people might not know what a sidearm is. sidearm is a technical term for a pistol (because when you're fully kitted, you wear it at your _side_). 4) **MSD** = minimum safe distance; just outside the lethal blast zone of an explosion. in the case of exploding toilets, outside the spray zone. 5) the Care Bear thing is not my fault. that's all i'm gonna say.

* * *

><p><strong>Field Research<strong>

Clay had suddenly cleared them for another day of liberty before their next op. He made some excuse about having been stuck wading through bureaucracy the whole time himself, but Pooch was pretty sure it had more to do with the way Jensen seemed to be getting a little more insane with each day since returning from his sister's place. Whatever the reason, Cougar and Roque hightailed it almost before Clay had finished talking.

Apparently Clay thought encouraging Jensen to leave the base would put a stop to the weirdness and the rumored plan to rig every toilet on base.

Pooch (who had opted to stay in and enjoy the potential peace and quiet) took one look at Jensen and knew Clay had thought wrong. Because the weirdness? Definitely continuing.

"J, man, are you wearing a—"

"Wig and fake mustache?" Jensen finished, assuming his 'nonchalant pose' (hands on hips, eyes wide and innocent, one eyebrow cocked). "Nah…"

Pooch sighed and shook his head.

"Okay, yeah, I totally am."

"Jensen, why are you dressed up like a friggin' stalker?"

"I'll have you know that birdwatchers wear hats and binoculars _at least_ as often as stalkers do."

Pooch didn't consider that a valid comparison, even in Jensen's bizarre Wonka-tastic version of the world. "Birdwatchers don't put on wigs and false facial hair. What. The fuck."

Jensen's gaze slid around the room impatiently. "Let's, uh… Applied anthrop—wildlife observ—field research, yeah, let's go with that."

Pooch stared. "Field research."

"Is there an echo in here, in here? Look, I really gotta get going, got places to be 'n all…"

"You know they ain't gonna let your ass off base lookin' like that," Pooch pointed out.

"Sure they will. They'll say, 'Hmm, he's got Jensen's ID, and Jensen's a fucking loony-bird, so it's probably him wearing another of those painstakingly crafted disguises he's so awesome at donning.'"

Pooch couldn't really argue with that (other than some of the semantics), so he just shrugged. "Okay. Have fun. And if this little 'bird watching' adventure of yours involves disguising yourself so you can buy large quantities of dye, I don't know you."

"Awesome. You stick with that story, Pooch. Stick with it to your dying day. Plausible deniability and certain lapses of contraband enforcement make the Army go 'round."

And Jensen scurried—actually _scurried_, which really shouldn't be possible for a guy his size—out of their barracks.

At that point, Pooch decided that if he ever had kids, Jensen was not allowed within thirty yards of them until it was scientifically proven that whatever madness the blond had wasn't contagious.

Just out of curiosity, he got up and walked to Jensen's locker. It was hard to say whether the thing might be booby-trapped, so he made sure he wasn't standing in front of it when he opened it.

After a slightly disappointing lack of explosions, cream pies, and flying objects, he peeked in.

There was the usual: clothes, sidearm, pictures of family.

And at the bottom, where Jensen's boots should be, was a huge stack of empty boxes of dye. It looked like enough for at least half the toilets on base.

"No wonder yo' ass was in a hurry," he snorted.

Overhead, the intercom crackled to life.

_~Hi, this is a pre-recorded message. I'd like to dedicate today's waterworks to my brilliant sister, Holly, because I honestly wouldn't have thought of it if she hadn't mentioned it. Hope you're all at MSD from the nearest toilet—I know I am.~_

Pooch slowly closed Jensen's locker and waited for the inevitable.

_~C'mon, everybody, do the countdown with me. Five, four, three, two, one—Care Bear Stare!~_

And the recorded voice dissolved into cackles, underscored by a series of low booms and indignant screams.

"That crazy son of a bitch seriously did it," Pooch chuckled, and decided that Jensen needed to stay at least _fifty_ yards away from any potential Porteous children.

**.End.**


	9. Taking the Bait

just an amusing little prank to take care of the desire for flying bear traps. (sort of takes care of "lots of caffeine/alcohol" and "flying bear trap," but don't think this means i won't hop Jensen up on caffeine for future amusement)

**warnings:** bastardized com-movie-verse (leaning a little more movieverse). bare hintings of slash (again, just the vague motivation behind Jensen's extra level of oddity). minor abuse of recruits. language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus f***, s***, and g**damn).

**pairing:** Cougar/Jensen pre-slash.

**timeline:** pre-movie/pre-comic. the night of and morning after **Field Research**.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to DC/Vertigo.

**notes:** 1) **rack** = bunk, cot, bed. 2) "como un cartón" = "like a cartoon." 3) actually, the unauthorized use of explosive devices on a military base *does* count as a terrorist act. Jensen's probably lucky he hasn't been dragged before a court martial a few dozen times by now. 4) fun fact: bear traps are often used as coyote and cougar traps. 5) taking your boots off for safety—in a lot of units, there's a standing rule that if you fall asleep in your boots, you're fair game for practical jokes like having things drawn on you. 6) wake up call—in barracks areas, they play (or broadcast) reveille at 0800 when they raise the flag for the day. you don't have to hear it if you live in base housing instead of the barracks (unless your base speakers are really loud). 7) "raghead" is a terrible slur against middle-easterners, but it's pretty common slang in the military. 8) it's not a good idea to argue with your drill sergeant when he punishes you. the correct response is "yes, drill sergeant" or "thank you, drill sergeant." 9) "cherry" = newbie.

* * *

><p><strong>Taking the Bait<strong>

Cougar was drunk enough to be completely confused by the presence of a bear trap between his rack and Jensen's.

A bear trap. An actual bear trap. Baited with a two-pack of Reese's peanut butter cups.

Pooch snickered. "Man, the look on your face right now…"

Cougar waved an uncoordinated hand toward the trap. "'S a bear trap. _Como un cartón_."

"You are **wasted**."

He made a face. "It makes sense to you?"

"You kidding?" Pooch snorted. "It's Jensen, man, nothing he does makes sense to me. Y'all missed the fun earlier, though—he pulled off the toilet thing remotely, so he was off-base by the time it went down. Whole place was in an uproar, like there'd been some terrorist attack instead of just another one of Jensen's pranks. Clay's gonna have kittens when he gets back."

Cougar crouched (he wobbled just a bit, but managed not to land on his ass) to have a closer look.

"I wouldn't, Cougs," Pooch cautioned. "You accidentally set that thing off and you could end up with a broken arm. Compound fractures ain't pleasant."

But Cougar was too drunk for that kind of logic. Instead, his logic went, 'There is chocolate, and I want it. It's in a trap, so obviously somebody intended for it to be taken.'

So he took the bait.

The trap didn't spring.

"Man, you are **insane**," Pooch muttered.

Cougar shrugged and unwrapped his prize. So, having won three hundred bucks at pool and gotten himself halfway to completely blitzed (for free—God bless horny women) and now added just the right amount of chocolate and peanut butter to the mix, he climbed into his bunk, toed his boots off for safety, and fell fast asleep.

Seven hours later, he groaned at the sound of the wake up call and wished fervently for Clay to get them out of the fucking barracks and into a fucking **house**. Waking up before nine when still technically on leave didn't bother him (he was used to five-thirty by now), but waking up with a splitting hangover headache and a trumpet ringing through his skull like a jackhammer…yeah, that made him want to hurt people.

"You better be outta that rack before Clay checks in," Pooch advised.

Cougar only needed one finger to express his opinion on the matter. "He better have aspirin."

"He better have a fucking **bottle** of the stuff," Roque added.

Fortunately, Clay had still been at the bar when Cougar stumbled home, and he'd had twice as much to drink. The risk of Clay storming in and expecting them to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed was somewhere between slim and none.

Roque made a miserable noise. "And some fuckin' Gatorade to wash this taste outta my mouth."

At that point, Jensen threw open the door to the adjoining bathroom (letting out a cloud of steam from the shower) and danced in while humming some CCR (and accompanying his iPod on air guitar). He was being his usual self, obnoxiously energetic and loud—but he was shirtless, so that softened the blow a bit, at least for Cougar. "Jesus, you two look like shit," he said cheerfully.

Roque growled. "You're lucky I don't feel like trying t' aim past the two of them to throw a knife at you, boy."

"Well! And to think I was gonna share my aspirin with you…"

Cougar buried his head under his pillow and held out a hand expectantly.

"See, Cougar knows how to ask nicely."

He heard the muffled sound of a bottle being uncapped, then two pills were shaken into his palm. He downed them dry and gave Jensen a grateful thumbs-up.

"Jensen," Roque said in a very dangerous tone, from somewhere near the end of Cougar's bunk. "What the fuck did I tell you about bear traps?"

"Whaaaat? I didn't bait it with porn."

Cougar frowned at that. Even for Jensen, it was an odd conversation.

"Get that thing the hell outta here before one of us loses a foot."

"Sheesh. Fine, Scrooge."

There was a metallic scrape that signaled the trap being picked up, followed by Jensen's boisterous footsteps toward the outside door. The knob rattled and the door swung open, letting in the sounds of the morning (jogging feet, cadences, shouting drill sergeants).

"There, gone."

Someone outside screamed.

Cougar slowly pulled his pillow away from his face to gaze at the ceiling in horror.

"What the hell was that girly noise, maggot?" a drill sergeant scolded. "Are you gonna squeal like that every time some raghead chucks something over your head in the field? Congratulations, you just gave away the unit's position! Each and every man in your platoon is dead from RPG fire!"

"But it was a goddamn bear trap, drill sergeant!"

"I know what it was, I have eyes, you lousy excuse for a human being! Drop down and gimme twenty for killing your platoon, and another ten for calling me blind!"

"But—"

"Goats butt, crapstain! You're up to forty now, hurry up before I get bored and add more!"

There was silence for a moment before Jensen shut the door and laughed like a maniac. "Oh, man that was **priceless**."

Pooch shook his head. "Cruel, J."

"Aw, c'mon, I cleared the little cherry by a solid eight inches," Jensen argued. "And you **so** owe me twenty bucks—I toldya Cougs wouldn't set the thing off when he took the bait."

Pooch muttered something about Mexican ninjas and handed over a slightly wrinkled twenty.

Cougar pulled his pillow back over his head and waited for either his aspirin to kick in or the world to start making sense again, whichever came first.

**.End.**


	10. The Best Laid Plans

yes, yes, even they can go astray. but that's not always a bad thing. [in fact, it checks off "mostly naked," "lots of caffeine," and "wet cougar." i have completed the list! XD;;]

**warnings:** bastardized com-movie-verse (leaning a little more movieverse). slash (pffft, like Cougar/Jensen isn't completely canon on some level or other) with imminent smexings. language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus f***, s***, and g**damn).

**pairing:** Cougar/Jensen. can't really blame Jensen, because i would totally hit that …so hard, with a plank...and drag it away caveman style.

**timeline:** pre-movie/pre-comic. about four days after **Taking the Bait**.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to DC/Vertigo.

**notes:** 1) it was MerianMoriarty's idea for Holly to have perfect gaydar. she probably pointed out all the guys at PTA meetings who were checking Jensen out. on a side note, Moriarty is the only person i've actually met with perfect gaydar; most other people's gets thrown off by bisexuals, so i get labeled as straight (unless i happen to be with Karu). 2) LOL. five cans of Monster in a day would be really bad for you, even if you never slept. there's 10mg of caffeine per ounce, just like Rockstar (Amp and Red Bull have a little less at about 9mg per ounce). most people would get the shakes in a major way. 3) the "flying-Mexican-ninja-sniper" thing was back in **Flight**.

**op** = operation, mission.  
><strong>comms<strong> = communications.  
><strong>DADT<strong> = "don't ask, don't tell," a really shitty policy that made it so homosexuals could join the military as long as nobody reported their preferences...in which case, they got discharged. with any luck, the repeal on DADT will stick, and LGBT can finally express their patriotism properly (for fuck's sake, being gay doesn't make you any less capable of pointing a gun at the bad guys than being female...).  
><strong>regs<strong> = regulations. it is, in fact, against military regulations to have a relationship with someone in your chain of command, ostensibly to prevent favoritism.

* * *

><p><strong>The Best-Laid Plans<strong>

Finding out that his super-sexy best friend was attracted to him had come as something of a shock to Jensen. No matter what Roque said about Cougar being pretty indiscriminate, Jensen had never seen the sniper pick up guys…just girls, and often in multiple. But Holly's gaydar was unerring, and her whole 'ohmigod, you're so dense' tantrum explained all the almost-flirting and the hacker-sitting (yeah, Jensen could admit that when he was in the zone, he needed someone to put food near him and occasionally drag him away to go to the bathroom) and the way Cougar seemed so tolerant of Jensen's various antics.

So Jensen had done his homework (including tailing Cougar for a whole day to familiarize himself with the signs of vigorous flirting), and then he'd come up with a brilliant plan that involved torturing Cougar into making the first move, just in case Holly was wrong. First time for everything, right?

But the damn sniper was being extremely uncooperative—he kept doing things like taking off his shirt and sunbathing while they waited for Roque to cobble together an attack strategy from the info Pooch had gotten out of the locals.

They'd been on the op for four days now. It'd been just over a week since they'd gotten back from leave. Two weeks since his sister had smacked him in the head with a remote. A month since his birthday and that _awesome_ kiss.

For this op, Jensen was only along as their comms man, so he had fuck-all to do until they actually made their move. There was only so much fun a guy could get from a laptop in a country with shitty internet coverage, and that fun was _not_ a sufficient distraction from partly-unclothed-sexy-Mexican-badass (even with five cans of Monster a day and fifty gigs of Red Dwarf episodes).

Especially in close quarters right after said badass exited the shower in nothing but a towel. There was not enough caffeine and satire _in the world_ to distract him from that.

Cougar was whistling as he dried his hair and slowly ambled toward his kit in the corner for clean clothes. A single drop of water slipped down the curve of his spine.

Jensen couldn't take it anymore. His frustrated libido sat up and said, 'To hell with your brilliant goddamn plan!'

He jumped up from the desk where his laptop lay and crossed the dinky hotel room in three long strides to block Cougar's progress with an arm against the wall. "Fancy meeting you here, cowboy," he said. It wasn't one of his best lines, but he was kind of proud his brain was functioning _at all_, under the circumstances.

Cougar stopped toweling his hair and looked up at Jensen expectantly.

"This actually wasn't in the plan," Jensen explained with a vague gesture. "I mean, realization of mutual attraction leading to ambushing you fresh out of the shower, when you're all moist and mostly-nude? How cliché is that, right?"

Cougar blinked placidly.

"My original plan included me being suave and endearing in my usual 'harmless geek' idiom, and gradually building sexual tension until you pretty much jumped me about a week from now. Clearly, mostly-nude-Cougar is too much for my plans to withstand—I'll lodge a formal complaint about that later, you can be sure. Also, for future reference, I love your hair when it's wet, it's got just enough curl to it to make you look way younger, which makes me feel kinda like a dirty old man, on reflection, but the wide-eyed jailbait look really works for you."

Raising his eyebrows, Cougar gave a half-shrug to concede the point.

Jensen's gaze wandered again. "My _god_, you are _hot_. I mean, I noticed it before, but pesky thoughts like 'even ignoring DADT, fraternization is completely against regs' and 'he's so straight he takes home three women at once' made it into kind of a peripheral realization."

He couldn't help staring at the little peek of tan line near the knot in the towel around Cougar's hips. It reminded him of all the shirtless sunbathing.

"Y'know, this you-wearing-nothing-but-a-towel thing is really derailing my train of thought."

Cougar smirked in that special way that meant 'yes, I know I'm awesome.'

Jensen closed his eyes long enough to remember what he'd been saying. "Hols said you'd been trying to get in my pants for a year, which is just _mind-boggling_ for me, because I know I'm cute in a dorky kinda way but I always figured you were completely outta my league, and I've been keenly interested since the holy-shit-flying-Mexican-ninja-sniper thing," he babbled, and had to pause to take a breath. He forced his eyes up so he could concentrate. "But you're also the best and coolest friend I've had since pretty much _ever_, and I really don't wanna do something that will fuck that up and make things _weird_ between us, which goes back to the subject of fraternization and the rule-of-thumb about not dating people you work with, because if we had a fight I would totally let a bunch of bad guys kick your ass a little before I beat them to death with their own limbs for even touching you."

Cougar nodded. "Okay," he said.

Jensen frowned a little. "Wh—huh? Okay? Okay what? Which part?"

And then there was a hot mouth on his and a pair of very _friendly_ hands in his back pockets, and he was reminded that Cougar was _a hell of a kisser_.

"Okay," Cougar repeated.

There was a smudge on the bottom edge of Jensen's left lens, but he really couldn't bring himself to care. "Okay," he agreed, and let himself be dragged to the bed. "Did you seriously date every girl on the cheerleading squad?"

"Stole their boyfriends, too."

"You're such a manslut!" Jensen laughed. "That's pretty hilarious, but if you ever cheat on me, I'll cut your balls off in your sleep."

**.End.**


	11. Jealousy

just some cracky crossover fun. i'll write some actual possessive!cougar at some point, i promise. but mopey!cougar surrounded by chicks fawning over jensen was too fun a mental image to pass up. speaking for myself, i find smart women to be way more intimidating than pretty women. i could walk up to a hot movie star and hit on her, but if she started talking about nuclear physics, i'd run like a whipped dog.

**warnings:** bastardized com-movie-verse (leaning a little more movieverse). slash. crossover with guest stars (internet cookies if you can guess who the ladies are; i think Abby/Goth Moppet is pretty obvious). language: pg-13 (primetime tv plus f*** and s***).

**pairing:** Cougar/Jensen.

**timeline:** pre-movie/pre-comic. about a month after **The Best-Laid Plans**. probably sometime in 2005.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to DC/Vertigo. other recognizable characters belong to their respective owners.

**notes:** 1) Bragg = Fort Bragg, headquarters for Army Airborne and Army Special Forces. 2) habitual convention-goers tend not to use their real names on their badges - they'll instead have their WoW screen-names, their artist aliases, or their PSN/XBL usernames. as press, i tend to be forced to either wear my name or the mag's title, but i get to go to Yaoicon with whatever name i want. 3) "Goth Moppet" is actually a common slang nickname for Hot Topic (like "wally-world" is for wal-mart). i have no idea where the nickname started, but a 'moppet' is a little kid. 4) again, the running gag about flying cougars comes from **Flight**.

**spanish**  
>"en el suelo" = "on the floor."<br>"en serio" = "seriously."

* * *

><p><strong>Jealousy<strong>

Cougar has never been jealous before.

If he wanted something that someone else had, he either got one of his own or he got over it. In high school, if he wanted someone, he smiled and pouted and found excuses to take his shirt off. There had never been the worry of unrequited desire, because he'd never been attracted to someone who couldn't be seduced, and never wanted more than each person was ready to give. His tastes at the time (and the tastes of all his partners) had been loose and fast-changing, so none of his relationships were designed to last more than a few days. In fact, he could slip right into the middle of somebody else's relationship, do them both a few times, and slip right back out without even leaving a mark (beyond the usual 'wow, that was fun').

So this jealousy shit is new to him. And he doesn't like it.

He has no basis of comparison for this feeling. Much of it is the same kind of possessive rage that comes over him when someone touches his rifle or his hat. Some of it is a grumpy desire for attention, the 'look at me!' feeling that spurred most of the seduction attempts in his life. A small but significant part of it is miserable dejection and inadequacy (which he has **never** felt before).

Jensen is oblivious, of course.

Cougar doesn't expect Jensen to notice his jealousy; after all, he didn't even know he was capable of it until now. They've only been 'together' for a month, so it's not as if Cougar really has any sort of **right** to be jealous. They're not getting married, for God's sake…they're just…whatever they are.

That thought makes him even more miserable, and he wishes his drink were alcoholic. Very alcoholic. Or laced with something that would put him to sleep so he doesn't have to see this.

Jensen, happily oblivious as mentioned before, is surrounded by what he terms 'hot nerdy girls,' who are all laughing and speaking the same incomprehensible computer-babble that Jensen does when he buys a new toy. They are at a convention for this sort of thing, in fact, and the four girls are all wearing badges adorned with the nonsense-words that make up their screen names. They run the gamut of physical beauty (curvy, skinny, tall, short, blonde, brunette, redhead…girl-next-door, pierced, tattooed…), they are all very smart, and they all seem to think Jensen is the most wonderful man they've ever met.

Cougar wants to tranq them and drag Jensen back to the room—no, all the way back to Bragg, so they can be far, far away from all these smart, pretty women paying far too much attention to **his** pet hacker (because it would be fucking unbearable if it turned out the only reason Jensen is in this **whatever** they have is because Cougar is the only one who pays attention to Jensen). He wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. He doesn't know what the hell he wants, besides a drink and an aspirin.

'Goth Moppet' is regaling them all with a tale of serial kidnapping and incarceration of women, and 'Pennyroyal' nods and tells her that it's a classic obsessive enactment that occurs to several psychotics who fixate on their mothers and the ideal wife. 'C Sully' agrees that in her journalistic career, she has read about several such cases.

Cougar stares at the nearest wall and wonders how much work it would take to bash himself into unconsciousness.

'Goth Moppet' leans into his field of vision with a cheerful smile. "Hi!" she says.

He tries not to glare.

"Well, aren't **we** Mr. Grumpy Bear…" She puts on an exaggerated pout. "You kinda remind me of my boss. He barely understands enough about technology to use a cell phone, and when people start talking about things he doesn't understand, he gets very short-tempered. Y'know, if we're boring you, you could totally take a nap, we wouldn't be offended. I wouldn't, anyway, I know it can be exhausting trying to keep up at a con when you're not really into the theme—this one time I went to a classic cinema con with DiNozzo, and he was dragging me everywhere like some little kid on a sugar rush, and I love movies but I'd barely even **heard** of half the stuff they were talking about."

He frowns very firmly (okay, he's probably glaring, but he's **trying** not to).

"Cougar," Jensen calls in a stern voice. "Don't think mean thoughts about Abby, she's a very sweet girl."

He rolls his eyes and tips his hat brim down a little farther to sulk. And how the hell would Jensen know if he's thinking mean thoughts about Goth Moppet?

"Because I know you, that's how," Jensen replies. "You're being sulky, and when you get sulky, you don't like people who try to be nice to you. I don't get to think mean thoughts about your gun, you don't get to think mean thoughts about my online friends."

Cougar grunts in acknowledgment and goes on sulking, doing his best to ignore the giggles, the casual touches, the way the girls all lean in attentively and hang on every word Jensen utters. If he doesn't ignore it, he thinks he might rip someone's hand off.

"You'd think he'd be enjoying the scenery a little more," drawls Pennyroyal a few minutes later. "You made him sound like a total horn-dog, JJ, but the only eye he's giving us gals is stinkeye. Like a spoiled housecat when a kid brings home a litter of kittens."

When Jensen bursts into laughter, Cougar feels like shouting at him, or maybe dislocating his shoulder.

"Don't laugh, you big meanie!" whines Goth Moppet, smacking Jensen in the back of the head. "Ohmigod, JJ, you can't sit there and make your boyfriend jealous on purpose and then **laugh**!"

Cougar stiffens in his seat and doesn't dare look up.

"He's taken?" asks 'Mad Girl' (an Australian-sounding blonde who looks awfully young to be at an event like this on her own). "By **JJ**?"

"Well, isn't it **obvious**?" says Goth Moppet, gesturing at Cougar.

"Only **completely**," replies C Sully.

"Aw, **damn**…" mutters Pennyroyal. "How'd you manage that? Gimme the step-by-step so I can get one of my own. Was there tequila?"

"No tequila," Jensen tells her. "But there was some incredibly good hacking involved, as well as binoculars, a bear trap, and a thought-derailing towel."

Cougar has no clue about the hacking or the binoculars; he'll have to ask Jensen later.

"A…bear trap?" says Mad Girl.

Cougar snorts. "_En el suelo_."

Goth Moppet chortles. "_En serio_? Jake, that's insane—what if somebody stepped on it?"

"There was chocolate," Jensen dismisses. "Cougar has a sixth sense that tells him when chocolate is near. It's one of his awesome ninja-sniper super-powers."

They're all back to giggling again, but this time Pennyroyal wraps her pretty plump self around his arm.

"Super-powers? Really?" she says. "This goes back to that whole 'flying cat' thing, doesn't it? Why the hell does JJ call you that, anyway?"

"There's gotta be a great story to it!" agrees C Sully.

"Epic," adds Goth Moppet. "Please tell us? Pretty please?"

"Pleeeeease?" all four girls chorus, pouting at him.

Cougar feels much better now that he's the center of attention. So he tips his hat-brim back up to look at them all and says, "How much do you ladies know about free-running?"

**.End.**


	12. Gatecrashing

gatecrashing: the art of showing up uninvited to social gatherings.

**warnings:** bastardized com-movie-verse (leaning a little more movieverse). slash. crossover with my Inception stuff sometime shortly after **Purgatory (I Know the Way)** (Waiting for the Kick Ch. 31). language: pg-13 (for f***, s***, and g**damn).

**pairing:** Cougar/Jensen, hilariously implied Arthur/Eames.

**timeline:** post-movie/post-comic. by maybe a month or less? the gang's still in the LA area.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to DC/Vertigo. other recognizable characters belong to their respective owners.

**notes:** 1) Jensen found out the Losers Don't Do Holidays back in **Third Time's a Charm**. 2) Slavic languages are structured so differently from English that many native speakers of Russian have a hard time with things like articles and number and tense agreement. the result of machine translations and inexperienced English-speaking Russians trying to speak English over the Internet was a garbled and grammatically painful Internettish dialect that joined with other forms of Internettish to evolve into Lolspeak (Lolcatspeak, Lolcatese, Lolcattish). hallmarks of Lolspeak include phonetic spelling, mispunctuation (or overpunctuation), frequent omission of articles ('a' and 'the'), and habitual confusion of has/have. 3) "guero" is slang for "white boy," and can be meant derisively, derogatorily (like "cracker"), or amicably, depending on the tone. "idiota," of course, means "idiot." 4) "DADT" = "Don't Ask, Don't Tell," a shitty policy that made it so that any member of the armed forces reported (though supposedly proof had to be provided) as being homosexual received an immediate dishonorable discharge. currently repealed (thank you, Obama), but American military policy shifts like the frigging tides. 5) "fraternization regs" - it's against military regulations to date within your chain of command. 6) the Old Spice Guy is awesome; he's portrayed by Isaiah Mustafa. the Old-Spice-esque Arthur quote is a reference to the commercial that first aired during the 2010 Super Bowl (The Man Your Man Could Smell Like). 7) the L'Ermitage Beverly Hills is an amazing Five Star hotel near Rodeo Drive. 8) "GQMF" = "GQ Motherfucker," a guy who dresses with suave sophistication while being a total badass. 9) Arthur got the intel from Michael Westen in **Welcome to Miami** (Waiting for the Kick Ch. 28). 10) Jensen heard Eames on Arthur's phone in **A Favor for a Friend** (Waiting for the Kick C. 25), and Arthur's mom heard Eames in **The Call** (Waiting for the Kick Ch. 19). 11) Shelley is Arthur's sister and Isaac is her son (both OCs).

* * *

><p><strong>Gatecrashing<strong>

Just as the Losers Don't Do Holidays, Jensen Doesn't Do Jealousy.

It's not in his programming. He's wired all wrong for it. Besides, jealousy wastes time and energy that can be used on other things.

Like elaborate revenge plots.

So Jensen doesn't get jealous—he gets even.

Aside from the fact that she lied to them and shot him in the arm, he likes Aisha. She's hot as hell, the batshit-crazy thing is kinda cool in a Dirty Harry sorta way, and she does the badass rescue thing very well. As a result, he tried very hard to be very patient when she started hanging around Cougar a lot.

It totally makes sense for Cougar and Aisha to be pals. They're both mysterious, both gorgeous, both badasses…and they both speak Spanish like natives (okay, technically Cougar _is_ a native, and Aisha grew up in South America).

Maybe it makes Jensen feel a little glum to see Cougar talking as much as a normal person (he only ever does it in Spanish), but he can understand the relief of being able to _speak_ in the language you _think_ in (and to a person who doesn't butcher the accent). Back when he was a private, he once spent two months working with an all-Russian group as a loaned infogeek, and their English was so fucking awful that he insisted on only conversing in Russian—when he finally got back to his own unit, he almost cried to hear American-style slaughtering of the English language instead of the fucking Lolcat shit the Russians spat out.

So, yeah, the part where Cougar and Aisha were cleaning their guns and yakking like a pair of Spanish-speaking cheerleaders was fine.

He drew the line when they started talking about _him_.

Jensen has trouble with Romance languages (he's an Arabic and Slavic specialist), but English has stolen enough words for him to catch little clips and phrases here and there, and he's pretty damn sure that 'guero' and 'idiota' both refer to him more often than anyone else.

A sensible person in a healthy relationship would have taken his boyfriend aside and mentioned that he was feeling left out.

Jensen has never been a sensible person, and it's hard to be in a healthy relationship when you've been ducking DADT and fraternization regs for two and a half years and are currently chasing down a genocidal crackpot super-spy.

So Jensen decided to use his knowledge for evil and drew up a plan for Operation: Make Cougar Jealous Out of Righteous Vengeance.

Next time he does it, he'll have to come up with something that makes for a catchy acronym.

One major disadvantage of Op:MCJORV (a better acronym than his first try, which was Operation: Show Cougar That Jensen Has Awesome Friends Too) is that most of Jensen's best and closest intel and hacking pals are in law enforcement and can't (or shouldn't) be dragged into the whole Max conspiracy thing. One major advantage is that the ones who aren't in law enforcement don't mind bending the law or risking the wrath of a nutjob rogue operative.

Enter Arthur Clarke: buddy from Basic, closet prankster, and Chuck Norris of the intel-theft world. He's kinda like the Old Spice Guy, but without the horde of Twitter followers. _Look again…you're in a room with the man your man could be nearly as awesome as if he wandered through other people's dreams to steal multi-billion-dollar secrets…I'm on a horse._

Jensen made the mistake of attempting to describe the solid brick of Awesome from which Arthur is carved. Pooch and Aisha laughed in his face (Cougar and Clay just shook their heads and looked skeptical). Now Jensen is, once again, suffering from wounded pride on top of being jealous that his boyfriend is buddies with the pretty-girl-who-blows-people-up.

Okay, yes, Arthur is a little too awesome for most people to believe.

But that doesn't automatically mean that Jensen has been, quote, 'makin' shit up to sound cool.' He doesn't bother to point out the fact that none of them could do what he does, and he's not the kinda guy to hold various past favors over their heads (tempting as it is). He's gonna vindicate himself the old-fashioned way.

If people don't believe him when he tells them how cool Cougar is, he introduces them to the guy. Boom, fresh believers. He figures the same strategy should work fine with Art.

So he finds Art by his cell phone, hacks the hotel for his room number. The team heads to the hotel. Cougar picks a spot to cover from, Pooch waits at the getaway vehicle like a good wheelman. Clay and Aisha follow Jensen into the L'Ermitage.

At the door of Arthur's suite, Jensen knocks _shave-and-a-haircut_.

A bored-looking Asian girl tugs the door open a crack (leaves the bar across the top, not that it would stop Clay). "Yeah?" she asks.

"Jake, here to see Arthur."

She gives him a once-over and smirks. "Oh, the one who owes him a suit because he hates Florida. Gimme a sec." She shuts the door, bolts it.

Jensen blinks. It's not like Art to tell his girlfriends about his covert work.

Somewhere in the room, some heavy piece of furniture skids and thuds, followed by Arthur's voice yelling, '_goddammit, Tak!_'

Aisha raises her eyebrows, clearly unimpressed.

Jensen silently fumes at her.

Some conversation goes on in the suite, the safe clangs shut, the door is unlocked.

And there's Arthur, suave and unruffled and fully three times the GQMF that Clay is. His suit looks like it cost more than all of Jensen's pet laptops combined.

"Jacob," Arthur says stiffly. "It's incredibly unpleasant to see you. I'm sure I've told you before that I hate surprises, especially surprise visits, especially from fugitives from every government agency _ever_. This is as irregular as it is inconvenient, and it had better not happen again unless you want a chemical lobotomy. Always call first. Clear?"

Chastised, Jensen hunches his shoulders and applies his best Sad Puppy Face. "Sorry. But they wouldn't believe me when I told them how awesome you are, Art, you're totally the kind of awesome that has to be seen to be believed, and it's not like—"

Arthur's left eyebrow twitches, and he makes a conductor's cut-off motion with his hand.

Jensen falls obediently silent.

"Well, _that's_ impressive," snorts Aisha.

Jensen shoots her a wounded look.

"We've established that I'm awesome and you're contrite," Arthur says, ignoring her. His eyebrow rises. (Jensen bites his lip against the urge to say, '_two tickets to that thing you love._') "I got your damn intel, and a number to an informant who asked to be put in touch. Now, get in here and stop making a scene in the hallway."

In the front room of the suite, the girl from earlier is sitting on a couch with another girl. They're both teeny and pretty, and they're sketching cityscapes.

"Holding 'private' art lessons?" Clay asks.

Arthur levels a scorching glare. "Working, Mister…"

"Clay. Lieutenant Colonel."

But Arthur already knew that. Jensen's pretty sure he's being intentionally obtuse.

Arthur's glare goes down a notch, and he sniffs. "These two young ladies are my junior coworkers, and I am not romantically involved with either of them in the slighte—"

"Darling, can I have another aspirin?" asks a guy walking in from the direction of the bathroom. He's heavy-shouldered and handsome, and wearing what might be the World's Ugliest Shirt (Jensen had no idea there was such a thing as a cantaloupe-and-mint paisley shirt).

"Sexy British guy on the phone!" Jensen realizes.

The girls break into giggles.

"Apparently," says Sexy British Guy. "Two complete strangers have called me that, so it must be true."

"Eames, be silent this instant, or I will throw you off the balcony," hisses Arthur.

And Art's the kinda guy who would. And he'd get away with it, too.

The man called Eames grins unrepentently and flops down on the couch with the girls.

Jensen suddenly gets a mental image of Arthur saying, '_good morning, Angels_,' and the three of them replying, '_good morning, Artie_.'

Arthur shoves a folder of data at Jensen rather aggressively. "There's your goddamn intel, Jacob. Stationary assets, tabs on two of his primary solo assets, his favorite experimental research centers, preferred brand of suit and watch, and two potential safehouses. I couldn't find anything on Wade Travis—"

"Dead," says Clay.

"Jet engine, long story," adds Jensen. "Suffice it to say, my boyfriend is a badass."

Arthur unconcernedly turns on his phone. "And this is the cell number of a Mister Michael Westen, formerly of the CIA. He's burned, so the privacy of this number is sacred. You lose it, I lose you."

"Sir, yes, sir!" Jensen says. "Wow, you are _seriously_ pissed off at me today. I knew you'd be mad, but _man_."

"He's in a shit mood because someone dumped him out of a chair," Eames helpfully explains.

"He deserved it," says the Asian girl.

Jensen blinks and punches in Westen's number.

"I'm waiting to be impressed," grunts Clay.

Jensen tenses, and he sees Art's three coworkers do the same.

Arthur taps his finger on the file in Jensen's hand. "That's a hundred and fifty thousand worth of info, _as a favor_. If you don't want it, give it back. I'd be interested to see how you plan on finding out a single damn thing about a Max without a CIA intel asset. Take your hand off that knife—if I wanted to turn you in, I'd've done it the second Jake called."

Aisha slowly relaxes.

"CIA, huh?" says Clay.

"Formerly,"Arthur says again. "But I'm retired, not burned. The private sector's more lucrative, favors to the dumb blond notwithstanding."

"And how good are you?"

"The best," Art's three sidekicks chorus.

"If he's in the country, I can find him," Arthur says. "Are you impressed yet? Because I've got _real_ work to do."

Slowly, Clay nods. "If you can find him before we do, I'll be _very_ impressed."

Arthur primly straightens his vest and gestures at Aisha. "Leave her at home next time, she's about as subtle as mortar fire and she wears enough cutlery to sign a Ronco endorsement."

"I know, right?" says Jensen.

"I can hurt you," Aisha grunts at him.

"You can't," Jensen scoffs. "You're scared of Cougar."

"Cougar's across the street, and—world's greatest sniper or not—there's a lot of targets between me and that window."

Art's right eyebrow lowers.

"We sh—you know, we should really be _going_," Jensen hurriedly says, shooing Aisha toward the door. "Like, _now_, because Art's incredibly busy being a big-time badass corporate spy of doom, and he doesn't need our lame selves underfoot, especially with the makings of a really great orgy going on up in here—"

"Jacob, I will _break your nose_," Arthur says flatly.

Over on the couch, the Three Hot Stooges laugh.

Clay and Aisha are already walking out the door.

Jensen ducks around the wooden barrier. "Thanks, Art, you're the best! All my love to Shelley 'n Isaac. Oh, and could you stand by the window and look cool for, like, five seconds, just so Cougar can see what he missed out on?"

He barely jumps back in time to avoid getting the door kicked into his face.

Okay, so Op:MCJORV didn't really go according to plan.

"If that's one of your friends, I'd hate to see what you consider an enemy," Aisha ventures as they walk out of the hotel.

"Nah. If Art didn't like me, he would've shot me when he opened the door."

"Maybe he just didn't want to get kicked out of the hotel."

Cougar's already waiting in the back of their latest stolen ride (a plumbing van, don't ask).

"You saw him, right?" Jensen asks. "Isn't he the coolest?"

Cougar raises his eyebrows just a bit.

"Well, of _course_ he was pissy, he hates it when people show up without calling. He drives like Jason Bourne, dresses like James Bond, and fights like Batman. You can't honestly tell me that isn't _awesome_."

The Hat tilts three degrees to the side.

"Exactly. If he could free-run, women would spontaneously orgasm when he walked by. That's how awesome he is."

Cougar snorts and pouts.

Oh, yeah, _totally_ jealous. Operation successful.

**.End.**


	13. The L Team

being the old man of the team doesn't mean you can't have cool friends.

**warnings:** bastardized com-movie-verse (leaning a little more movieverse). slash. crossover(s). language: pg-13 (for one use of bulls***).

**pairing:** Cougar/Jensen, implied Face/Cougar (because no way would Face be able to resist Cougar at his most charming...and Face has weak willpower to begin with).

**timeline:** post-movie/post-comic. by maybe a month or less? the gang's still in the LA area.

**disclaimer:** the Losers belong to DC/Vertigo. other recognizable characters belong to their respective owners.

**notes:** 1) as always, the lovely MerianMoriarty (merianmoriarty . deviantart . com) was my Spanish consultant. mini-glossary after notes. 2) reference to all the Max activity surrounding the end of the previous season of Burn Notice. 3) "satcam" is short for "satellite camera." 4) it was a damn crying shame about that Ducati, but Wade deserved to go flying through a jet engine, and it was a very good shot. 5) O'Hare, the major international airport in Chicago, is the stopover between Warsaw International Airport (in Poland) and LAX. 6) Ranger qualification has to be earned *in addition to* Army Special Forces qualification. Ranger school is basically two months of hell, focusing on leadership skills, small unit tactics, and preparing trainees for prolonged battlefield conditions (very low sleep, insufficient daily caloric intake, and high physical and mental stress). typical Ranger trainees are SF-qualified soldiers in the US Army, but civilian personnel and non-US military personnel can also obtain permission to attend Ranger school, and they are authorized to wear the Ranger tab upon completion. it's worth noting that the Ranger tab is a permanent tab, and can be worn for the remainder of a soldier's career after being earned (so the fact that Murdock isn't wearing one at the hearing in the A-Team movie implies that he is not and has never been a Ranger, no matter what he claims...and if he did earn the tab, it may have been stripped from him for conduct unbecoming a Ranger). 7) good snipers, especially SF snipers, really do get pimped around. 8) "fourteen hundred" is military time for 2PM.

**Spanish mini-glossary  
><strong>galletas = cookies  
>es verdad = it's true<br>nada más = nothing else/that's all  
>no te importe = neverminddon't worry about it  
>chicas = girls<br>que era antes de— = it was a long time ag—

* * *

><p><strong>The L-Team<strong>

Clay would freely admit that Arthur-who-is-Awesome delivered the goods. All the intel he had was recent and solid, and his informant had turned out to be an old friend of Cougar's.

Well, a lot of people turned out to be friends of Cougar's; he'd been a sniper for a while now, and truly excellent snipers were rare enough that they got shared out to complete various ops. By this point, Cougar probably knew more people in the covert world than Clay did.

"So wait, wait," said Pooch, waving a hand. "How many Maxes does this Westen guy know?"

Jensen gesticulated broadly. "Well, the other one wasn't Max—I mean he **was**, his **name** was Max, but he wasn't **a** Max—"

Cougar shook his head.

"—okay, so he **was** a Max? Whatever. Anyway, he wasn't **our** Max, so the thing in the place with the stuff was just an unrelated tangent. None of ours, y'know?"

Clay sipped his beer, waiting.

Pooch assimilated the 'none of our business' part with a slow nod. "And we found tabs on the Russian chick?"

Aisha held up a finger. "It's the guy who's Russian, actually."

"The chick is Spanch," confirmed Jensen. "Or is that Frenish?"

Pooch stared. "Say **what**?"

"Half-breed, French daddy with a Spanish mommy. She's in Poland, go fig—Art had satcam footage to verify Westen's info. She can't be much help to Max directly from all the way in Poland. It was the Russian dude we found tabs on, somewhere in the St. Petersburg equivalent of the projects—"

Clay's phone rang.

_~"I was surprised to hear from you again—I never did get the opportunity to congratulate you on your promotion to Lieutenant Colonel. How does the day find you?"~_

Clay grinned. "About as well as it can, with a burn notice from the company. But I'm sure you know what that's like, sir. Thanks for returning my call."

_~"One of my men has just gotten word that Miss Belmont is planning a trip to the States with a very sensitive package in hand."~_

"Even a CIA intel man couldn't get us that."

_~"I find a little Face-time can get you double the information. By the way, heard what happened to Lieutenant Travis—outstanding marksmanship, shame about the Ducati."~_

"Small price to pay to rid the world of a very bad man."

_~"Oh, I agree. As a token of our esteem, the Sergeant has a care package waiting for him at the front desk of the Wilshire Grand under the name of Señor Tramel. Keep your eyes on the Thursday two o'clock from O'Hare."~_

"Thank you very much, Colonel Smith."

When Clay hung up, Jensen was gaping.

"You—but—that—" Jensen stammered. "Smith like **Han** Smith, the stogie-puffing badass Ranger all good little green berets wanna grow up to be?"

Clay raised an eyebrow. "What, I can't have cool friends? I've been making cool friends since you were still hacking porn for your buddies in high school. You'd be amazed the kinda pals you make renting out the services of an extremely talented sniper. Speaking of which…Cougar, Smith's team got you a care package. It's at the—"

"Wilshire, Tramel," Cougar said with a grin. "Inside joke."

"Inside jo—Colonel, you've been **loaning Cougar out** to people?"

Clay gestured to the sniper. "I've never heard him complain. Besides, he's the one who collects all the interest."

Jensen turned to Cougar with a supremely appalled expression.

Cougar shrugged.

"Just how many jobs have you done for Smith? And what does he mean by 'care package,' anyway?"

"_Galletas._"

"Oh, bullshit!"

"_Es verdad._"

"Cookies, you expect me to believe—they put something in 'em, right? Or, or they put something else in the box?"

"_No, nada más. _No te importe.__"

"Don't you '_no te importe_' me, mister! I'm the only man allowed to feed you cookies! Did you sleep with Peck? You totally slept with Peck, didn't you? Dude, you know I don't mind the _chicas_, but we talked about you and **other guys**."

"_Que era antes de—_"

"Uh-huh, sure," Jensen interrupted, talking over a very long and detailed explanation that made Clay wish he didn't understand Spanish. "Next you'll say 'all those other guys meant nothing.' And did you just say you liked his accent?"

By that point, Pooch had put his fingers in his ears and walked over to Clay. Raising his voice a little, he said, "So! What we got, other than an epic lovers' quarrel?"

Clay went back to his beer. "Belmont's bringing something to Max. Thursday fourteen hundred outta O'Hare."

"Are they gonna be done with this by Thursday?" Aisha asked, gesturing to the hacker (who was loudly proclaiming that he was giving Cougar the silent treatment).

"Sure, if we make ourselves scarce for a couple hours."

Pooch made a face and said, "Did not need that mental image, sir."

"Just pretend they'll be playing Scrabble, soldier—that's how I got by for the last two years."

**.End.**


End file.
